


Freudian Slip

by betts



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Doctor/Patient, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hypnotism, Love Confessions, Pregnancy Kink, Therapy, WTFfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: For the prompt: Bellamy's therapist is a BABE and now she knows things about him. There's just something intimidating hot about a woman who knows the best and worst parts of him who also so happens to wear the tightest fucking skirts. Seducing her just comes naturally. Idle touches. Mentioning, on occasion, the kinky af sex dreams he has (which are most certainly about her, but she doesn't need to know). It's only a matter of time before she breaks.





	Freudian Slip

**Author's Note:**

> Per the prompt I had intended for this to be in Bellamy's POV, but I ended up using the prompt *as* the POV and wrote Clarke's reaction instead. 
> 
> My bad for any therapy related mistakes. I graduated with a psych degree a decade ago which means 1) I've forgotten a lot, and 2) a lot has changed.

On paper, Bellamy Blake is “treatment averse” or as Clarke refers to him in her head, “a problem patient.” He’s doing court-appointed therapy for assault of a minor, a sixteen year old boy who had apparently been dating — or trying to date — his sister. Bellamy spent the night in jail and was released on bail. His sentence involved fifty hours of therapy, preferably IOP, which is the fastest and easiest route, but he got kicked out for calling one of his counselors a "fuck nut.”   
  
And so he’s been given to Clarke. His prior intake counselors had diagnosed him with an undifferentiated mood disorder, which is a nice way of saying he’s aggressive and no one wants to deal with him. His trauma questionnaire responses were all low, but something about his answers piqued Clarke’s curiosity, and she spent their first session trying to get to the root of it.   
  
“So my mom wasn’t around much, so what? She had shit to do,” he told her. Then, after some probing, “Yeah I was there when she died. Everyone’s parents die. It’s part of life.” Then, “I used to get beat up sometimes. It’s not a big deal. Everyone gets bullied.” Then, “Who doesn’t think about killing themselves sometimes? Come on.” According to Bellamy, nothing is ever a big deal, and every single thing he thinks and feels is exactly what everyone else thinks and feels, and nothing ever deserves an emotional reaction other than anger, and anger must be acted upon with violence.   
  
EMDR proved ineffective, in part because he refused to latch on to a specific memory. He’s not patient enough for CBT, and he referred to DBT as “a bunch of feel-good nonsense.” Most of their sessions involve him talking about the week he’s had using rote facts, as if filling up as much time as he can and moving on, which might work for some therapists, but not Clarke. Bellamy Blake is not the type of man who needs to talk through his feelings. His problem is that he doesn’t know how to feel them at all. Every week he spends yammering at Clarke about banal and trite details of his life, the ghost of Carl Rogers weeps.   
  
The interest Clarke has taken in him is stronger than she’s ever had with another patient. She thinks about him after work, before bed, and sometimes she's still thinking about him when she wakes up. She finds herself going through their sessions when her mind idles, both what has already been said and all the things she’d like to say. Once, while having sex with her husband, she let herself think about Bellamy, just briefly, not even a full second really, just to tip her over the edge. Bellamy happens to be very attractive, objectively speaking, and sometimes she catches him staring down her blouse. Sometimes, she bends over to fix her heel just for that purpose. Occasionally he'll not-so-subtly adjust himself in response.   
  
“I’d like to try something new,” she says to him today. Outside, it’s raining, drops rhythmically pounding against the window. It’s their twentieth session. With his few hours of IOP, that puts him at forty hours. Ten more to go.   
  
“Sure.” He always sits in the dead center of the couch, legs spread apart. Dirty jeans and loose t-shirts. Leather jacket. All wrapped up in his masculine persona.   
  
“How do you feel about hypnotism?”  
  
He snorts a derisive laugh. “If EMDR didn’t work, hypnotism won’t either.”  
  
He’s so perceptive, she thinks, making the link between EMDR and hypnosis. “We have ten more sessions. Might as well try it, right? If it doesn’t work, we can go back to CBT.”  
  
“You mean me bitching about my life.”  
  
She smiles. “Yes, you bitching about your life.”  
  
“Okay, how does this work?”  
  
“I’m going to spend some time bringing you under, ask you a few questions, offer some suggestions, and bring you back up.”  
  
“What kind of suggestions?”   
  
“About how to deal with your aggression.”  
  
“Sure, okay.”

She wheels her chair over, close to him, so her knees are settled between his. “I’m going to need you to focus your eyes on this pendant without turning your head. Listen to the rain, okay?”  
  
He nods. She holds up the necklace she’d put on that morning, an amethyst Finn had given her for their anniversary last year. She dangles it in front of him and swings it slowly back and forth, while in her head counting the seconds.  
  
At first he fidgets, and she catches his eyes dart away repeatedly. Each time, she brings his focus back to the pendant, until his attention is captured. A minute passes, and another, and she says, “How are you feeling, Bellamy?”  
  
“Fine,” he says, like he always does.  
  
“What I want you to do now is imagine descending down a staircase. It’s a dark staircase. Can you see it?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere. You have to imagine it." She gives him a moment to think, then says, "At the bottom is the most comfortable bed you’ve ever seen. The room is warm, and you’re tired, and as soon as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you’ll get to rest. Does that sound good?”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“I’m going to guide you down the stairs, okay? One step at a time. I’ll snap my fingers every time I want you to go down a step. Can you do that?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good. There are ten steps to the bottom. When you get there, and you’re done resting, I’ll say the phrase, ‘Come, Bellamy,’ to bring you back up.”  
  
He doesn’t respond. His eyes are glazed over and his blinking is growing slower. She snaps her fingers to bring him to the next step, lowers her voice as she continues describing the room, his tiredness, how heavy he's feeling, what a relief it’ll be once he reaches the bottom and he can lie down and relax. After the tenth snap, Bellamy’s head droops to his chest.   
  
“Bellamy? Are you awake?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says, but the word is slurred.

"I want you to look at me. Can you do that?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Too tired."

"You can't sleep yet, okay? I need you to look at me."

He wrinkles his nose and looks up at her. His eyes are wide and innocent and a little afraid like a lost child.   
  
“How do you feel?” she asks.  
  
“Tired.”  
  
“You can rest, but you can’t fall asleep. Do you understand?”  
  
He pouts, but says, “Yeah.”  
  
“Do you trust me, Bellamy?”  
  
“More than you know.”  
  
His answer surprises her, but she steels her face to complacency. “Can you tell me what happened the night you punched your sister’s boyfriend?”  
  
“He’s not her boyfriend.” He pouts harder, sounds sadder — another surprise since, based on previous sessions, he would have risen quickly to anger.  
  
“Tell me about him, then.”  
  
“He was going to...you know. With my sister. I walked in on them. He had her pinned on the bed. I threw him off her and hit him. And I kept going. O was screaming at me to stop, but I couldn’t.”  
  
“Was the situation consensual? With your sister and this boy?”  
  
“She told me it was. I don’t believe her.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
He shrugs sheepishly.  
  
“You can tell me, Bellamy.”  
  
“She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t —” He taps his chest. “I’m the one. Me. No one else. She’s my sister. My responsibility.”  
  
“Who told you she’s your responsibility?”  
  
“Mom did. When O was born. And growing up. And before she died. She made me promise.”  
  
“Promise to take care of your sister, at all costs.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How does that make you feel?”  
  
“Trapped.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Can’t move. Can’t date. Can’t have sex.”  
  
“You can’t have sex?”  
  
“Not without thinking of O.”  
  
“You think about your sister when you have sex.”  
  
A frustrated wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “Not like that. She'd feel bad. Betrayed. Like I was.”  
  
“When was the last time you had sex?”  
  
“Before Mom died.”  
  
“And you’d like to have sex.”

He nods shyly. 

"Is that a yes?"

Another small nod.

"Why aren't you talking to me, Bellamy?"

"Don't wanna," he mutters.

"Why not?"

"Because."

She sighs. "Because why?"  
  
“Wanna have sex every time I step into this office.”  
  
Clarke inhales sharply, clutches her necklace in her fist so tightly the chain digs into her palm. “Can you clarify that statement for me?”  
  
“Can’t look at you without wanting to put my dick in you.”  
  
She should stop this. She should sever the line of discussion and bring him out and have him change therapists. “How do you feel about that?”  
  
“Bad.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Can’t talk to you about it. Feel like I’m hiding something. Hate myself for it, the things I think of.”  
  
“What things?” She regrets it as soon as she asks it.  
  
He smiles a little. “Putting my mouth on your pussy. Bending you over the desk. Spanking you.”  
  
“I’m married.”  
  
He shrugs again. “Don't care.”

“If — if you told me about these things you wanted to do to me, do you think you could make progress?”  
  
He shakes his head so sharply his hair moves.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“No talking. Only doing.” He shifts on the couch, grasps his crotch firmly in his hand. She sees now that he’s gotten hard, and the outline of his cock is — impressive. “Wanna come all over those pretty tits.”  
  
“Don’t you think that’s inappropriate?”  
  
“Wouldn’t be. Eventually.”  
  
“Eventually?”  
  
“When we stop. Can take you out proper. Show you how nice I can be. Not crazy. I’m not crazy.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Bellamy.”  
  
“Yeah you do. You think I’m a psycho. You’d never touch me.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re a psycho. I promise I don’t.”  
  
“I’ll eat you out. Show you how good I can be. What a good boy I am. I can be good for you. I’m not bad. I don’t want you to think I’m bad, I —”  
  
He’s getting visibly upset, so she hikes her skirt up and spreads her legs to stop his spiraling. He stares between her legs, and before she can close them again, he’s sliding off the couch, taking her knees up, and pressing his mouth to her underwear, his nose rolling up and down her clit.  
  
He glances up at her. His eyes are still glazed over and open, more innocent and wanting than she's ever seen him. “You’re wet already.”  
  
“I —” She has no excuse for it. Thankfully he uses that moment to slide her panties to the side and thumb over her slit. “Oh god.”  
  
He presses his lips to her clit and sucks. Her fingers move immediately into his hair. She has to bite her lip to keep from crying out.  
  
“Taste so much better than I imagined,” he says, muffled in her cunt. "Wanna do this for days.”  
  
“But.” She tugs his hair to get his attention. “How would your sister feel?”  
  
He looks up at her again, mouth open, red and wet, head tilted innocently while his eyebrows form a question. Like he forgot about Octavia just for a moment. “She’d think it was hot.”  
  
“She wouldn’t feel betrayed?”  
  
“Maybe, but.” He stares at her cunt like it holds the answers to all his problems. “Want it too bad to care.” Then he dives back in, and it feels like such a win that this time she doesn’t stop it, grips his hair in her fist and takes a page from his book — she wants it too badly. Like him, she puts everyone above herself. Maybe it’s the heat of he moment talking, but maybe she deserves this man’s ministrations, just for an hour.  
  
He curls two fingers into her, and she can’t stave it off much longer, comes with a shout trapped in her throat, soaking his face and her skirt. He lifts off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His other is in his unbuttoned jeans, working his own cock over. No one has ever wanted her so much. Certainly not Finn.  
  
He climbs back onto the couch, pulling off his shirt on his way, and says, “Want you to come on my cock.”  
  
There’s no going back now. She’ll lose her license, her practice, her husband. But she’ll have had the best sex of her life, and maybe that’s worth it. Freud would think so. He lowers his pants to his thighs and she climbs on top of him. He tries to unbutton her blouse, but gets frustrated and rips it open, kisses the tops of her breasts over her bra.   
  
“Get rid of this,” he says.  
  
She tugs her ruined shirt all the way off and throws it onto the floor. He reaches behind her back and unsnaps her bra, lets it fall off her tits. He looks at them in boyish awe, like it’s the first pair of breasts he’s ever seen in his life.   
  
“I dream about nursing you.” His cock shifts against her slick cunt, teasing her entrance but not pressing in. “Dream about fucking a baby into you, watching your stomach swell up with my kid. Sucking the milk out of your tits.”  
  
Finn never wanted kids. Clarke went along with it because, she told herself, she didn’t have the energy anyway.  
  
“You want to have a baby with me?” she asks.

“More than that.” He grasps the base of his cock, grips her hips and pushes her down on top of it, all the way home in one easy movement. “Wanna take you out. Learn everything about you. Hate myself for it, how much I want you. Want to marry you.”  
  
He guides her up and down on top of him. “Marry me? Why?”  
  
“You’re perfect.” He groans into her throat. “Smart. Beautiful. None of these other counselors gave a shit about me. They’d let me sit here and mouth off for a whole year, but you —” He stills her hips and thrusts up into her. “You get me.”  
  
“I’ve been so worried,” she says, gasping, “so worried I’ve been useless to you. A waste of time.”  
  
“God no. Highlight of my week, talking to you.”

He reaches between them to flick his thumb over her clit. His cock reaches more deeply into her than Finn’s ever could.   
  
“If I could have you in my life,” he says, “I could let O go. I wouldn’t be like this anymore, if I had someone like you to love.”  
  
Her second orgasm is rising up her spine. The thought of it is so heady, letting Bellamy carry both of them away from their other attachments, never looking back.   
  
“Oh fuck, I’m gonna come, Bellamy.”  
  
The first wave crashes over her so hard that she barely notices the way he freezes and tenses up. The phrase to bring him back up. She'd forgotten already. His eyes light up with sudden awareness, wide and totally lucid. She stares at him, reeling from her orgasm, cunt still pulsing around his cock.   
  
“I’m sorry,” she says, moving to climb off him, body trembling with fear and dying embers of pleasure, like drowning in a vat of cold water. “I’m —”  
  
He grips her hip harder to keep her steady, and with his other hand, takes her by the back of the neck and brings her lips down to his, performative aggression back in full force. He fucks into her harder and faster than before, more rough with her than he was just moments ago. No more sweet talk now.  
  
She feels him tense under her palms. His mouth falls open when he comes, eyes squeezed shut, cock throbbing inside her. For a second she gives into his fantasy, getting married, having a baby. Working through their issues together.   
  
She slips off of him, off his lap and gracelessly to standing. His come drips down her leg. She takes her bra from the couch and, with shaking hands, slides it back up her shoulders.  
  
"Did you mean it?" Her amethyst pendant is on the floor, and she kicks it under her desk.

"Your stupid hypnotism worked. I don't know what I said."

She bends down to pick up her blouse and put it on, but it won't button so she can only hold it closed. "That you want to marry me. And have a kid with me. And — if you had someone like me to love, you wouldn't be so dependent on O."

He tucks himself back into his pants and stands. For a second she thinks he'll storm out of her office, tell everyone he can about what she's done, and her life will be over. Completely over. He steps closer, and she backs up, until her thighs hit the desk. She's always been the one looking at everyone else; no one has ever looked at her so intensely, like he can see every part of her. Like she's the one who's been hypnotized. 

"Clarke," he says, a gentle hand coming up to her chin. "If you needed to hypnotize me to figure that out, you're a worse therapist than I thought."

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr, twitter, and dw as bettsfic.


End file.
